The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  “Nothing, as long as it is in the womb. But once it sees the light of day…” Lazdac assumed a regretful air. “Now, that I really can’t say for certain, although my hopes are high. You see, it will be the first of its kind, this child.”

  Halla slammed her palms hard on the table between them. “What do you plan to do with my baby?”

  The vaar leaned back with a smile that made her blood run cold.

  “Are you sure you want to know? Very well.” He flipped the lid of the little box closed. “I shall feed it to my drakdaemons, then set them loose to take my vengeance on the world.”

  Chapter 11

  Fynn

  “Come. I have something to show you.”

  Fynn smiled as he took his newfound grandmother’s proffered hand. It was an invitation he’d heard often since his arrival at Bodiaer. This time, Lady Guin led him to the stall of a beautiful black horse, who poked its white-blazed nose out to nuzzle Fynn’s shoulder.

  His grandmother laughed. “I thought you might recognize one another! Oh, I know this is the first time you’re meeting Willow, but she was Flekka’s last foal, and Flekka was your mother’s cherished horse.”

  Her words stoked a bittersweet warmth in the region of Fynn’s heart. Flekka was the name Mamma had given her horse in Restaria, too. He stroked Willow’s velvet nose, feeling like he’d just received a gift from home, even if that home was one to which he could never return.

  “She’s yours, if you want her. But perhaps you’d prefer a great destrier?”

  Fynn shook his head, a smile spreading across his face. “No, she’s perfect. Thank you, Grandmother.” That was what she’d asked him to call her. It still felt strange to say it, but the way her face lit up whenever he did was a strong encouragement.

  Willow plucked a carrot from Lady Guin’s hand with the same delicacy Flekka had always shown. “Shall we ride out, then? You’ll want to get better acquainted with her.”

  When Fynn looked pointedly at Lady Guin’s fine gown, she made a disparaging face.

  “Oh, fiddle the dress. Henry!”

  A groom who was mucking out the stalls set down his rake. “Yes, m’lady?”

  “There’s saddling to be done, if you please!”

  * * *

  They rode along an expanse of white beach, the rushing wash of waves like a balm to Fynn’s soul. He had grown up to the sound of the sea, although here in the south the tides were gentler and the water turquoise rather than slate blue. Langmerdor’s coast was also lower and flatter, and the summer breeze was much warmer here than in Restaria. But the knowledge that his mother had ridden here when she was his age made him feel closer to her than he had since the terrible day of her death.

  They charged through the surf, raising spray in their wake. Like Fynn’s mother, Lady Guin was a natural horsewoman, and he had to dig his knees into Willow’s flanks to keep up with her. When they reined in by a great midden of shells, her eyes, the same brilliant blue as his mother’s, were, for the first time since they’d met, unshaded by grief.

  “You’re very like her, you know,” he said.

  “Everyone used to say she was very like me. And you remind me so much of her, too.”

  “I do?” Fynn had always failed to find much of Mamma in his features. “I’ve been told I take after… the other side of my family.”

  His grandmother pursed her lips, then seemed to come to a decision. “I’m not trying to pry, Fynn, but I’m not so old that I can’t follow the bread crumbs to the pantry.” She shook her head as if she’d lost an argument with herself. “At any rate, what I meant is that there’s much about your nature that reminds me of your mother.” She drew a kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her welling eyes. “Forgive me for being a foolish old woman.”

  Fynn’s heart ached, for it was clear she was suffering every bit as much as he was over Mamma’s death. Only she’d been suffering for far longer, and probably even more acutely now that he’d awakened old sorrows.

  “Does it get easier over time?” he asked quietly.

  Lady Guin sighed. “Oh, my dear boy. I’d like to be able to tell you it does… but the truth is, to lose a child is to mourn every day for the rest of your life.” She ran her fingers through her mare’s mane. “What does change with the passage of time is how you express that grief. I rarely feel the raw, throat-stopping pain I did in the early days.”

  She raised her eyes to the horizon, where flecks of light glinted off the water. “The first year after we lost your mother was very hard. There was the first birthday without her to get through. Then the sorting and packing up of her belongings. Some of them, the ones I couldn’t bring myself to part with, I stowed away in her old nursery, but most were distributed among our people.” She gave a sad little shake of her head. “After a few months, I think folks expected us to settle back into our old lives. But those lives had fled with Georgiana. Even when I could finally force myself to make estate rounds again, the pitying looks cast my way were almost too painful to bear. But I found little solace in our home either, not with reminders of her whispering from every corner.”

  She looked out over the waves. “But gradually, very gradually, I rediscovered reasons to get out of bed every morning. I could go about the business of the day without dissolving in tears. And over time, the little things, the bright unexpected moments, held the darkness of despair at bay.” She swept her hand across the palette of blue sky and sea before them. “Such as this moment. I’m happy… happy that I chose to live on, despite my grief, to listen for the song of a lark at dawn outside my window, or the rush of the wind spinning the leaves of the poplars like silver coins. Since Teca came, I can add the music of your grandfather’s laughter, which I had not heard for a very long time.” She gave Fynn a small smile. “Especially when he beats us at cards.”

  She reached for his hand and gave it a brief squeeze. “And now you are here. I hope you have some idea”—her voice caught in her throat—“some inkling of the joy your return to us has ignited in my heart.” She gave a little musical laugh. “Although, if I’ve put it all together right, I imagine you won’t be staying long at Bodiaer. But I want you to remember, my boy, whatever lies ahead, you will always have a home here with us.”

  Fynn squeezed her hand back. “Thank you, Grandmother. That means a lot.”

  She lifted her gaze, and her warm smile faded. A lone horseman was racing toward them from over the dunes.

  “It’s all right,” he assured her. “It’s just Wren.”

  But there was an urgency to the knight’s approach that made Fynn uneasy, and Wren’s first words confirmed there might be reason to be.

  “My lord, Lady Guin. A visitor has arrived at Bodiaer. A friend, whom both Lord Whit and I know well. And he says he’s an old acquaintance of yours too, my lady. Master Morgan.”

  Lady Guin looked surprised. “Back again? He called in not so long ago, inquiring about the circumstances of Georgiana’s death.”

  Fynn had heard mention of Master Morgan from Whit, and now wondered if the wizard had come to Bodiaer because of him.

  Upon their return to the castle, they found Whit, Grinner, and their newly arrived guest in the main hall. The old wizard introduced himself to Fynn with polite warmth, but the look of consternation on all of their faces made Fynn blurt out, “What’s happened?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve come with worrying tidings,” Master Morgan said. “Someone recently approached me about finding you, my lord. Someone quite powerful.”

  “Please, I’m known by all here as Fynn. I’m no lord.”

  The wizard inclined his head with a small smile. “With all respect, I believe that remains to be clarified.”

  Whit ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “Titles are the least of our worries. We have decisions to make. One thing’s for certain: Fynn can’t remain at Bodiaer a day longer. If
the Tribus is seeking him along with Roth and Vetch, any of them could descend on us at any time. There has to be someplace we can take Fynn that will keep him out of their reach.”

  The wizard raised an eyebrow. “No one knows of Fynn’s whereabouts, at least not yet. And I don’t think hiding this young prince’s existence is any longer advisable. Not if you’ve found the confirmation we seek. Have you?”

  Whit cast a glance at Fynn’s grandmother.

  “I can follow a bee to its hive, gentlemen,” she said tartly, “but if you’d like me to excuse myself…”

  Fynn drew his grandmother under the shelter of his arm. “I’ll have no secrets from Lady Guin. Whatever you’ve discovered about my mother belongs to her as much as it does to me.”

  Master Morgan nodded. “Of course, you’re right. I’ve come to tell you that the Tribus is aware of your existence. One of their number actually spirited me out of Drinnkastel, in the hope that I might locate you.”

  “If you mean to take Fynn to Drinnkastel, master, I must object,” said Whit. “There’s nothing to stop Roth or Vetch from orchestrating an accident for him there. Besides, you just told me yourself that you’ll be arrested and executed the moment you set foot in the capital again.”

  “Dear me,” Lady Guin said. “Surely there are better options?”

  Master Morgan inclined his head. “I think that all depends on Lord Cardenstowe’s answer to my question.”

  Whit released a long breath. “Yes. I have the proof.” He turned to Fynn. “This was found in your mother’s room.” He removed a fold of paper from his pocket and held it out.

  Fynn took it, examining the broken wax of the seal.

  “That’s Urlion’s seal,” Whit said. “It’s on the certificate as well, along with his signature, and that of the former chief monter of Langmerdor, now deceased.”

  Fynn laid the document on the table so they all could see it.

  Urlion Konigur and Georgiana Fitz-Pole are hereby joined in holy matrimony, before the gods, on this day, the 23rd of April, 494.

  “That is indeed Urlion’s signature,” Morgan said. “Lady Guin, can you confirm that this is your daughter’s hand?”

  She gave a small nod, then pressed her fist against her lips.

  “This doesn’t change the fact that I was raised as a Helgrin,” Fynn reminded them all.

  “Regardless of where you grew up, Fynn, this document verifies that you are the lawful heir to the Einhorn Throne. And this is further proof.” Master Morgan held out a silver chain from which the head of a familiar wolf-like beast dangled. “Your father gave me this on his deathbed. You have the other half of it, don’t you?”

  Mamma’s words echoed in Fynn’s mind. You must never take it off, or reveal it to anyone, save a loyal vassal of Urlion of Drinnglennin.

  Slowly, he drew his half of the pendant out from under his tunic.

  “With your permission?” The wizard slipped the second chain over Fynn’s head, and joined the two pendants. “The alphyn of the Konigur kings.”

  To Fynn, it felt as if the weight of the Known World had fallen upon his shoulders. “But… what about King Roth?”

  His grandmother made a dismissive tut. “You are Urlion’s legitimate successor, Fynn Konigur. Langmerdor, for one, will support your claim.”

  “The northern realms are already chafing under the Nelvor reign,” Master Morgan said. “No one desires civil war, but even without the revelation of your legal claim, the lower realms will not long suffer Roth’s dominating will. Once they learn there is still a Konigur to follow, they’ll flock to your standard like bees to the blossoms.”

  Fynn looked from one of them to the other. “But what if I don’t want them to? What if I don’t want to be a king?”

  “Some people believe fate guides us, Fynn, but I’m not one of them,” the wizard said. “We have it within our power to shape our destinies, and to make of them the best we can. So yes, you have a choice, and it’s yours alone to make. But know that, by accepting the rights and the responsibilities to which you were born, you shall have the opportunity—and the power—to redress many wrongs.” Master Morgan glanced over at Grinner. “For example, to call for the end of the mistreatment of your friend’s people, and to stamp out prejudice on the Isle. You will be a just ruler, and that is exactly what Drinnglennin so desperately needs if we are to salvage the principles that your grandfather, King Owain, fostered during his reign.”

  Fynn didn’t know what to say to this. Proof of his parentage was what had brought them all to Bodiaer in the first place, and now that they had it, he could no longer pretend that the idea of him succeeding Urlion Konigur would turn out to be some far-fetched fantasy.

  His face must have betrayed the turmoil roiling within him, for his grandmother lifted a little bell from the table and gave it a firm shake.

  “I think,” she said, with an air of quiet command, “that we could all do with a restorative refreshment. I’d suggest a fine Langmerdor wine.”

  Chapter 12

  Maura

  From behind the stage, Maura could hear Ruen strumming his lute. Her heartbeat quickened as the crowd of miners gathered to hear the Trilling Troubadours gave a ragged cheer. She was to make her debut with the troupe, taking the stage after their first set.

  Wells gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder before stepping out to join Ruen, taking care to avoid the uneven board that had toppled Jory the evening before. The piper had broken his wrist, and it was fortunate that Elery, Jory’s replacement, was a Drinnglennian and familiar with most of their repertoire. A tall, thin, taciturn fellow, Elery had come to Szendre with the first wave of miners from the Isle, married a local woman, and stayed on.

  Butterlights fluttered in Maura’s stomach as the troubadours launched into “The Bells of Aredell.” Ruen’s voice was a lovely tenor, and practicing with him had brought Maura a brief respite from her otherwise constant worry about Ilyria. It had been over a week since she’d left the dragon in the bracken on the outskirts of town. Close to the brook as she was, she should remain undetected, and she had an abundance of food and plenty to drink. But Maura couldn’t help worrying that Illyria would think she’d been abandoned—yet again.

  Unfortunately it would be courting trouble to try to return to Ilyria until the dragon’s wingbone had mended, for Ruen was sure to come in search of her. He watched over her like a mother hen. It seemed the troubadour had made his own assumptions as to what she was doing in Szendre.

  “There’s no shame, love, when a girl falls on hard times. But now you’ve joined us, you’ll not have to depend on your young body to support yourself. We’ll see you right.”

  A gentleman to the core, Ruen had even moved out of his own wagon so she could have it for herself. But that wouldn’t make it any easier for Maura to slip away. There was always one of the troupe assigned the watch at night. And even when she did manage to leave, what then? She tried not to think about the possible scenarios—that she wouldn’t be able to find her way back to the stream; that the rogue drakes would have found their sister before Maura returned; that Ilyria, thinking she had been forsaken, would have flown off to Belestar without a final farewell.

  Plagued by these fears, Maura willed the time to pass swiftly. At least she needn’t fear she’d run into someone she knew, for all the miners from the Isle hailed from Glornadoor. Tonight, they were rowdier than usual, as it was payday at the mines and many of the men were more than a little drunk.

  When the rat-a-tat of Wells’s kettle-shaped drums sounded once more, she walked onto the stage, praying she wouldn’t forget the words to “The Merry Maid of Brenn.”

  “Just sing ‘la la di da’ if you forget the lyrics, love,” Ruen had told her. “The crowd won’t know and they won’t care, not when they’re being treated to a voice as true and sweet as yours.”

  But before Ruen had e
ven finished strumming the opening notes of “The Merry Maid,” a bear of a man hauled himself up onto the stage. Maura leapt out of his path as the big man stumbled past her and tore the lute from Ruen’s hands.

  The other musicians faltered to a stop.

  “Are you a lutenist, friend?” Ruen said evenly. His voice was calm, but Maura knew his heart must be pounding as hard as her own, for the instrument had been in his family for generations.

  “I’m sick o’ the same songs o’er and o’er,” the miner growled. He really did look ursine, with his shaggy hair and thick, tangled beard. “Sing us s’mthin’ from the riverlands.”

  “Certainly.” Ruen’s eyes flicked to the meaty hands grasping the neck of his lute. “But I’ll need my instrument back to do so.”

  The man scowled. “On the River Murr, we don’t need no instruments fer our songs.”

  The crowd started to rumble, and a rotten apple fell just short of the stage. Ruen cast a glance at Wells and the others. “I’m afraid we don’t—”

  The interloper raised the lute threateningly over his head.

  “I know a song from Tyrrencaster,” Maura said brightly. “My mother’s from those parts.” Smiling up at the bear, she hummed a few bars of the lullaby she and Dal had fallen asleep to on many a night. Then she started to sing, low and sweetly, as to a babe in a cradle.

  Lu lu li lu li lah leh

  sweet child, lay down

  your tousled head

  and I’ll sing of clouds

  sailing ’neath your bed.

  O’er fields of gold, o’er grasses green

  where you’ll dance through the night

  with the Faerie Queen.

  May she watch o’er you,

  keep you safe ’til morn

  when a bright new day

  t’will soon born.

  Lu lu li lu li lah leh

  Lu lu li lu li lah leh

  Lu lu li lu li lah leh

  Halfway through the lullaby, tears began to stream down the hairy man’s cheeks and moisten his beard. As the last note trembled on the air, Ruen leaned forward and gently removed his precious lute from the man’s slackened grip.